Child of Twilight
by Staggering Wood-Elf
Summary: A Maeglin story-arc, with episodes from various parts of his life, uploaded in a somewhat random order. New scene, 'At Tumunzahar', done and up.
1. At Tumunzahar

A/N: An earlier part of the story. I'm sorry about the stupid lack of order of this thing, but that's just the way I've written it. The next part'll probably be in Gondolin, just to confuse things more.   
**At Tumunzahar**   
_Eöl and Maeglin visit the city of the Dwarves, and Maeglin learns something new. _   
Disclaimer: I own nothing.   
  
The sun was climbing slowly over Beleriand, in no hurry to bathe the land in her light. From the shadows of Nan Elmoth to the wide plains of Himlad to the shoulders of the Ered Luin, a pale glow of dawn was spreading from over the Western Sea, painting the clouds with gold and salmon pink and hazy blue. Yet there were some who were unaware of the sunrise, and cared little for it.   
It was not yet the ninth hour of the morning, but already the day's peace was disturbed by the relentless noise from deep beneath the earth. The Elves in that region covered their ears, lamenting the unseemly racket, but deep below their feet, hundreds of Dwarves were unaware of the disturbance they were causing. In Tumunzahar, the sound of hammers and chisels on stone rang out from every corner, the rattle of chains as ore was drawn up from the deepest mines, a thousand deep voices singing songs for mining, and loudest of all, the roar of many forges deep beneath the earth. The halls themselves were teeming with activity, with craftsmen and miners hurrying from place to place without a care for the noise their iron-shod feet were causing. From the doorways lining the halls came a multitude of smells - hot iron, steam, roasting meat, and some pungent herbal stench drifting from the great kitchens. All around, the Naugrim were calling out to each other in their strange tongue, and shouted instructions echoed around the high pillars and roofs. It seemed that the only ones who were silent in the vast halls of Tumunzahar were the two black-haired Elves who had arrived that morning, and were now recieving the grand tour.   
"So you have not run out of ore yet in that forest of yours?" the guide said to the taller of the two. "If I may say so, my Lord Eöl, a forest is a most unsuitable place for a smith to dwell. Why not come here, and dwell with us? Lord Sarin holds you in very high regard."   
"My forest is dear to me," Eöl said. "I have dwelt there since before the sun was made. Besides," he glanced at the younger Elf beside him, "I would place myself in peril of many a banged head on your low doors."   
The Dwarf stared at Eöl, then threw his head back and laughed. "We shall have to right that at once," he said. "Tumunzahar was not built for Elves, but I am sure you are more than half Dwarf."   
Eöl smiled, or at least made the closest expression to a smile he ever did, turning his crooked mouth slightly upward. As they turned down yet another deep and winding tunnel, he spoke again to the guide, this time in the Dwarves' own tongue. Maeglin, who followed behind, knew little of the mysterious Khuzdûl. The change of language suggested that now the conversation had turned to him. He watched them talk, not understanding their words, but guessing at the meaning. Normally he would have burned with rage, but Eöl knew full well of his discontent in the forest, and he thought it wise to avoid a confrontation. He and his father had been on good terms for several weeks now, and he hoped that by agreeing to visit the Dwarves with him he had patched up the rift, at least for the time being. He was coming to understand that arguing with Eöl was futile, for the Dark Elf was too clever, and saw too deeply to decieve. It was better, he decided, to be what Eöl wanted him to be, for then he had the privelidges of trust at least.   
Instead of trying to follow the conversation with the snatches of Dwarvish he knew, Maeglin thought back over the last few days. They had left the cover of the trees at sunset, and his mother had come to the very edge of the wood to see them off. Her farewell had been cool, not the lavish of tears and kisses he was expecting, and she had handed him his sword without speaking. He watched her, little defiant white speck against the shadowy woods, fading into the distance as they sped East.   
They camped just before sunrise, resting beneath the shade of a copse of trees. Maeglin built a small fire, and they feasted on a piece of Eöl's bitter waybread. The dancing flames brought to mind the smithy, and Eöl, usually silent, consented to tell his son a little of his travels with the Dwarves when the world was young. He spoke of the great fire-pits which fed the mighty forges of Nogrod and Belegost, the orange flames that lit the darkness in the heart of the earth both night and day. He spoke of the mighty things they had built, and the time an age before the making of the sun, when the hottest fire the Dwarves could contrive had forged something stronger than iron, bright and fell. Maeglin listened enraptured as Eöl told him of the first swords of the world, and the first hands to wield them. After a time, he fell silent, wandering the paths of memories unknown. They laid down to sleep beside their dying fire, just as the first light of dawn began to infiltrate the trees.   
The next night they rode on, speeding across the plains like two shadows in the starlit dark. Names and places flashed through Maeglin's mind - this was the land of Celegorm, son of Fëanor, and cousin to his mother. Eöl rode hard and fast through the flat country, reverting to his usual silence as the line of the Ered Luin rose on the horizon. It was a clear night and the stars shone brightly, and Maeglin was intoxicated by the feeling of the wind whipping his hair and cloak. Keeping Eöl's quick pace they passed the Noldorin encampment undetected, but Maeglin felt his eyes drawn to the shadowed homesteads of his mother's people, and wondered.   
As they rode on, he occasionally caught sight of small lights in the dark, flashes of fire between the trees. Sometimes there were many, like little flames far in the distance, and he thought he heard voices singing in a strange tongue, harsh voices and whispered laughter. He called his father.   
"Are those the Laiquendi?" he asked, and the Dark Elf shook his head.   
"No, the Green-elves make no fires, for they love wood more than warmth. Those are Avari," he said. But of the Avari he would speak no more, and fell quiet again as the stars set overhead.   
They camped within sight of the gates of Tumunzahar, and Maeglin laid down gladly on his bed of soft leaves, easing his aching body from the night's ride. Soon he was asleep, and in his dream, he thought he saw many little candles in the dark, extinguished one by one. When he awoke, the sky was dusky with evening, and Eöl was sitting on a log at the edge of the thicket, keeping watch. His cloak was drawn close around his shoulders, the waning light of the glancing off his faded skin. He seemed to sense Maeglin was awake, and turned around suddenly. His eyes were ringed with dark. Maeglin guessed he had kept watch all night, but against what enemy, he knew not.   
"You slept long," he said. "We must leave this land."   
They had arrived at midnight through the winding mountain paths, and were led in silence to rooms where they could rest the remainder of the night. Maeglin was looking forward to meeting the Dwarves, but the forges had been especially busy that week and they had had to wait to be properly greeted. At first, he considered this an insulting lack of courtesy, but now he had spoken to some that had not been rushed off their feet with work, he began to understand their ways better. Had he not spent many hours at the forge when a particular blade caught his interest? Had his mother not beseeched him to ride out to the eaves of the wood with her, and he had refused? The Dwarves were coarse and unlovely in manner and mood, but truly they were masters of their craft, and that Maeglin had seen as soon as he entered their halls.   
And what a craft it was! Since the Dwarf's customary tour of the city had begun earlier that morning, Eöl had often found himself giving stern words to his wide-eyed son every time they passed a workshop of particular interest. There seemed to be so much to learn, and Maeglin wondered if he would ever understand it all, like the Dwarves did. Despite their stunted, heavy bodies, they were remarkably agile and quick, and their blades were the sharpest, for beneath the mountains they built forges the size of houses, and their children learned the craft from the earliest age.   
The guide led them to the foot of a great flight of stairs, carved from the living rock by mighty hands of the past. Maeglin ached to linger there, but Eöl touched his shoulder, giving him an unspoken instruction to move on. Their guide bowed and left them, and Eöl led the way up the stairs.   
"Are we to see Lord Sarin?" Maeglin asked. His father nodded shortly.   
"You will conduct yourself politely the Dwarf-lord's presence. Do not speak unless you are spoken to directly, and keep your hands to yourself."   
"Of course, father," Maeglin replied. Sarin son of Grundin was the oldest Dwarf in the city, and had been its lord for many sun-years. He and Eöl had been friends, if their relationship could be so called, since long before the first rising of the moon. From what he could glean from his father, Maeglin guessed that it had been a shared love of metals that drew the Dwarf and the Elf together, and each had gained much benefit from the other. In truth, he had trouble imagining his taciturn father having friends, at least not in the way that he imagined them. But then again, he would not know, having none himself. The forest was a lonely place, with only his mother and her sad stories, or the silent smiths who were half-frightened of his father. Once he had told Eöl that he would like a friend to play with, a long time ago when he was young, too young to know better. He long remembered his father's reply.   
"Have I not provided you with companionship?" he had said. "Have I not kept you occupied with your smithwork? Ask not for a friend! Is my house not enough for you, ungrateful son?"   
And now, his father walked ahead of him, the black tendrils of his hair fading into the dark around them, the weak lamplight finding shadow in his angular face, deep in the night beneath the mountains. Maeglin never quite knew what to make of his imperious father - for him, love was obedience, and nothing more. A difference of opinion was an act of rebellion, so he must keep his mother's stories of her kin secret, and disguise the accent that had slipped into his voice from learning her tongue. That was easy enough, for while no-one in Elmoth really knew where Eöl came from, his smiths were simple Sindar, of darker mood than their Doriathrin kin. By day he spoke their tongue, but with Aredhel, he spoke the strange, beautiful trilling Quenya she had brought from over the sea.   
By now they were come to the top of the stairs, where the stone branched out into a wide platform set with gold. There was a wide, heavy stone door, engraved with runes and starred with a single red gem. Even in the dark its many facets shone brilliantly, and Maeglin wondered what it would be like to touch it, but he did not dare, remembering his promise to his father. Eöl knocked, then pushed the great door open as if it was made of light wood.   
Maeglin had expected Lord Sarin to be somehow bigger than other dwarves, greater in stature for his greater years, but he was the smallest Dwarf they had seen, old and grey-bearded, with hooded eyes and work-worn hands. However, when he saw his old friend, he put his work aside and struggled to his feet to greet him.   
"Eöl?" he said, reaching for a short oak walking-cane. "By Mahal, it is good to see you again! I was starting to think that you had left us for Gabilgathol and their jewels."   
There was a long-running rivalry between the two Dwarven cities, and recently Nogrod had gained the upper hand by discovering a long seam of glittering green stones, earning much wealth from, as Sarin put it, the jewel-hungry proud people. Eöl smiled, and bent down to accept his friend's embrace. Maeglin watched his father from the doorframe, observing the unlikely friends greet each other. He wavered, half in the shadow and half in the light, unsure of what to do.   
"Jewels are of no interest to me," Eöl said. "It is a matter of metals that brings me to your halls. This year..."   
"Wait, wait!" the old Dwarf interrupted, and Maeglin marvelled at his audacity. He had never seen anyone interrupt his father before.   
"You have much haste for one who is as old as the very mountains themselves." Sarin said, leaning on his stick. "My time may be growing short, but surely you would not leave your guest unmet by his hosts?" The old Dwarf turned then to Maeglin, who stood behind his father.   
"Come closer, young master. My eyes are not what they were, and I cannot see your face."   
Obediently, Maeglin stepped into the light. Sarin looked on him for a long time, and it seemed his eyes glittered slightly, as if touched by strange sight for a moment. Then, his expression changed. He drew back, almost recoiling, as if Maeglin had made to strike him.   
The light faded. He smiled as if awakening from sleep, and turned to Maeglin's father.   
"You have a fair child, Eöl friend," he pronounced after a time. "He has your eyes, and I fancy he is even more keen-sighted than you."   
"I call him sharp-glance." Eöl said. Maeglin looked at the old dwarf, and wondered what part of him the sharp glance had pierced, and what he had seen in his moment of foresight.   
"His mother must be a lovely maid indeed." Sarin went on. "Long has Eöl journeyed to our house in the mountains, but not once has he brought his fair wife. If she would visit us, we would be greatly honoured. Never has a lady of the Eldar ventured beneath these halls."   
Eöl tensed almost imperceptibly, but his eyes darkened, and Maeglin noticed his father's change in mood. Suddenly, he was no longer friendly. His answer was short.   
"My wife has no wish to leave the forest."   
"Very well, then," Sarin said, oblivious to the change in his friend's tone. "Come, come! I must apologise for my hospitality, we have become so engrossed in our new works that we have not offered you a solemn dinner, friend-of-Dwarves. We shall lay a great feast for you, in honour of your son's first visit to us. Afterwards, I will take him to the forge. We have much to teach one willing to learn."   
Forgetting himself, Maeglin said eagerly, "Will you teach me?", earning himself a glare from his father.   
"But of course!" Sarin laughed. "Our craft has many intricacies of which your sire surely knows nothing." Maeglin looked worriedly to his father, but Eöl merely gave a thin smile of acknowledgement at the jest. Maeglin found himself beginning to laugh more freely, warming to the old Dwarf's company. It had been long since anyone had shared a joke with him.   
Eöl's cold hand on his shoulder silenced the laughter. "My apologies, good Lord Sarin, but my son and I have not broken fast this day, and we shall be of little use in the smithy if we are weak with hunger," he said, in that strange tone he had, somewhere between amused and threatening. If the Dwarf noticed, he paid it no heed, but at once he put down the gem he had been polishing and bowed quickly.   
"But of course! We shall provide you with much food presently. Gabilgathol keep their jewels! We have the finest meat in this land!"   
With that, the Dwarf-lord hurried off, hobbling slightly on his bent stick. They watched him leave, and Maeglin felt a strange tightness in his throat, a feeling almost akin to what he felt when with his mother. By their next visit, Sarin might not be there to greet them and laugh with them. Before long, he would be sleeping the long sleep with his fathers in their halls of stone, and his pleasant manner would be no more than a memory. On an impulse, he wished that the Dwarves could have the immortal life of the Elves, and their skills would stay in the world, ever growing, ever bettering...   
"You would do well to hold your tongue," said Eöl, leading his son from the room.   
"I did not raise you to indulge in idle chatter. We have come here to work."   
Maeglin nodded, and they began to descend the stairs in silence. Yet now, the younger Elf's mind was racing. For the first time, he felt he was beginning to think in a new way, and for the first time, he found himself questioning his father. The Dwarves had not been unfriendly or cold, indeed they had shown a genuine interest in his questions. Why should he be silent when he wanted to speak? Their lives were too short to waste with silence, so why should he waste his?   
_Because it is what he had always been taught. _   
Did Eöl want to make his son so much like himself? Must Maeglin be silent because his father was? Must he never see the sun because his father hated and feared her light? When they returned to the forest, would his father chain him to the forge with his new skills, so he could never journey outside the wood again?   
Maeglin shivered and suddenly felt the need to be outside in the fresh air, although the sun was riding high and Eöl had forbidden it. Then, the thought came to him, an idea he had only played with before, never daring to try it. Could he lie to his father?   
All his life he had believed that Eöl could not be tricked, and to an extent it was true. His father was deep-seeing and his long ages of life had given him a kind of wisdom to look into minds and pierce any veils of deceit. But Maeglin was growing, in both years and skill. More than once he had felt confined by the forest, and now in the halls. He was not artless in stone-craft, and yearned to explore the high paths and rocky gullies of the mountainside, all bathed in Vása's warming light. And maybe, some time, he could suggest a ride to the eaves of the wood with his mother when they returned to the forest. She would be delighted, and all it would take was a little practice from him. He was coming to understand that to decieve Eöl, all he needed to do was to slip on a different face - a face of willing submission, of obedience.   
"Father?"   
Eöl turned to his son. "What?"   
"Is it not meet that I should change for dinner? I have no wish to offend our good hosts." Maeglin spoke quietly, yet earnestly, as if he truly believed in what he was saying.   
And it worked.   
Eöl smiled.   
"You have your mother's good manners," he nodded briefly. "Go on, then. Do not be long. I shall meet you outside the feasting hall in an hour."   
Maeglin raced off, and Eöl stood beside the great pillars of the staircase, fingering the hilts of Anguirel as he watched his son hurry towards the light.   
  
**End**


	2. Stardusk

A/N: So Maeglin wouldn't leave me alone. A few things got written, set at various stages of his life, in a completely random order. This is it, a story-arc spanning his rather interesting life...   
_A tale of Maeglin, Aredhel and Eöl, and their last days together in the forest._   
Disclaimer: None of it belongs to me.   
  
**Stardusk**   
  
  
The sun never came to the forest of Nan Elmoth.   
Long ago, the trees had grown tall and dark, their grasping branches winding together, shutting out the light. Since no light fell on the shadowed halls deep within the wood, telling the time was more a matter for guesswork than anything else. Work finished when it finished, or when the Lord of the forest ordered it so.   
In the world outside, the sun had long set and dark star-strewn night was advancing over the plains. By the nagging ache in his muscles, Maeglin guessed that the work-day had dragged on for far longer than usual. The time of the annual feast at Tumunzahar close now, and Eöl clearly intended to impress his hosts with many gifts of iron and steel.   
Maeglin looked behind, and there was his father, bent over his dark anvil, hammering a blade out for a short axe, later to be fitted with its handle of pine-wood. In the forge-light Eöl's dark hair, which he clipped at his neck for ease of working, shone dully in the dancing flames, and he muttered intermittently in a forgotten tongue as he worked. His back was facing his son, but Eöl had an uncanny way of knowing other's minds, just as Maeglin did, and giving his father reason to be suspicious might ruin his plans. So, he turned back to the task in hand.   
It was boring work for him - he had made hundreds of horse-shoes over his life in Nan Elmoth. He longed for something new, for a challenge, to make something never made before. His father had forged two swords from a fallen star. He could do more, he was sure of it. If only he was not confined to the forest, if only he could learn more about the mountains of the land outside, search for a better ore than what the servants mined. If only his father had not forbidden him from the mansions of the Dwarves, which he deeply resented, he could be so much better. It seemed to him that Eöl was deliberately holding him back. Perhaps he was afraid that one day his son would surpass him. Maeglin smiled bitterly. Fine chance of that ever happening, confined to the forest like a caged animal.   
Now the metal glowed brightly, and he removed it from the heat automatically to hammer it into shape. The motions were so familiar to him that he could allow his mind to wander, and he chose a happier path tonight.   
The evening before, Maeglin had asked permission from his father to be absent from the forge, saying he needed to go to the iron mine, for supplies were dwindling in Eöl's house. Eöl was in an unusually compliant mood and had agreed, even offering to accompany Maeglin that they might talk about the gifts for the feast. Caught off-guard by Eöl's friendliness, Maeglin had muttered something about not wishing to trouble his father, and had left in a hurry, lest Eöl discover the truth of the matter. In his hand, he held the crushed bit of paper covered in his mother's elegant script. They were to meet, and steal a few illicit hours beneath the sun.   
He had come quickly to the stables, and, checking that the stable-hand was not lurking somewhere in the shadowy outhouse, he untied two horses. His mother's proud white mare always came willingly, longing for the free plains and long grasses of her home. She was so excited at the thought of breathing the fresh air outside the forest that she stamped and snorted loudly, and Maeglin had to whisper soothingly to calm her and avoid being heard. His own horse was sleek and night-black, sired by his father's own. Maeglin was certain that Eöl had not chosen his son's horse by accident, but had not the time to think on that now. He took them both by the reins, and by secret paths he hurried to the place he knew his mother would be waiting.   
Aredhel had been there, as promised. She was clad in shimmering white from head to toe, with a carcanet of pearls upon her dark hair. She smiled fondly at her son, and once again Maeglin was struck by her beauty. He yearned to see other women sometimes, for his mother was the only female in the land of Eöl. She would tell him tales of beautiful Idril who wore flowers and gold twined in her hair - Maeglin had laughed at this extravagance, for flowers were a rarity in the darkness of his home - but as he thought on it, it sounded very fair. He longed to see her, to perhaps touch this Idril's silky locks as his mother sometimes allowed him to do with her own. However, Aredhel had told him proudly that she was accounted the fairest of the maidens of the Noldor, and Maeglin was inclined to believe her.   
Seeing his awestruck expression, she smiled. "I like to dress thus, for when I breathe the sweet winds outside this wood, I almost feel I am back in Gondolin." She leaned forward to kiss his cheek, her breath cool and sweet, strands of her dark hair quivering in the wind. He smiled, and handed her the white reins of her own horse. The beast stamped gleefully to be back with her mistress, and gave a soft whinny of pleasure as Aredhel climbed up.   
"Lómion, you are late," she said, giving him a reproachful glance from the saddle. "I almost turned back. You must have had me standing here shivering for the most part of an hour!"   
"I am sorry, mother," Maeglin said, mounting his own horse. He stroked its dark mane to calm it, for the horse picked up on his excitement. It had been a long time since he had ridden out, and he hungered for the sun like never before.   
"You come straight from the forge, I see," Aredhel said disdainfully, wiping the dust and metal-grime from her hand where she had touched his face.   
"I am sorry that I cannot be in such fair array as you," Maeglin said. "I told father I was going to the iron mine."   
Aredhel laughed delightedly. "You are truly a child of mine, then! In the land of Bliss and Light, I would tell my mother and father that I was going to my lessons, when in truth I roamed the forests with my cousins Celegorm and Curufin. They used to be angry at me for decieving them, but I could always charm my way out of it." She beamed expectantly.   
"I would never decieve you," promised Maeglin.   
"I am glad of that," Aredhel said. "Now, let us flee! We must hurry from this wood, for I percieve you yearn for the sun just as I do."   
He recalled little of the ride. They had turned North and crossed Celon, and as they sped towards the eaves of the forest, Maeglin caught snatches of stars through the gaps in the treebound roof. Aredhel had laughed gleefully as they came to the stream that marked the end of Eöl's land, and she spurred her horse on as they entered the wide country of the sons of Fëanor. He was content to let Aredhel lead, and buried his face in his horse's mane, feeling the wind in his hair, and imagining they were running away forever.   
He remembered that cold hour of the early morning that they came to a halt at the very edge of the wood, and beheld the wide plain that was Curufin's land. The sun had not yet risen, and the land was bathed in the pale light that always came before dawn.   
Maeglin looked upon his mother, and was struck by how small, how frail she looked. Even when she spoke, her voice carried a slight tremble. His heart ached, for he knew she was fading, day by day, slowly dying of a broken heart. Sometimes, the confusion of love for his mother, hatred of his father and the mixed-up teachings of both his parents drove him to paralysis, and he began to forget who he really was, the person behind the faces he wore to please them.   
"This is the land of my cousin Curufin. He is a mighty lord, and dwells but half a day's ride across the plain. Shall we not visit him?" Aredhel said.   
"Mother..." Maeglin started. "We cannot..."   
"Oh, I know we cannot. But would you not like to? It has been long since I saw my kin, and I would show them how fair you have become." But her eyes wandered westwards, and Maeglin knew that in her mind she was looking out over Gondolin again. He wished he had his father's power of insight, so he could see it alongside her.   
"Turgon my brother will be up by now," she said. "He always was an early riser. And in the palace, he will just be able to hear the morning salute. The archers of the Golden Gate blow their bugles in tribute every morning, just at sunrise. And Idril..."   
But now the sun was climbing, tendrils of dawn sweeping across the plain, and the long grasses quivered in anticipation of the morning. Suddenly, the dazzling light broke the horizon, and Maeglin had to turn his face away from the penetrating rays. Aredhel looked to him in concern.   
"I am sorry. I had forgotten that the light was too strong for your eyes. It is a small wonder, for you were born in the dark and see keener in the shadows than I. Do not worry! Soon you shall be able to look on Vása in all her glory. I learned to abide in the darkness, did I not?"   
_Yes. And no..._   
Maeglin turned again to face her. The light burned his eyes and tears threatened to spill down his cheeks, but he did not care.   
"We will leave one day," he said firmly, "And you will lead me to Gondolin, the city of the seven names and six great gates, each more fair and mighty than the last..." He began to lead her away, slipping into the story that had comforted him as a child, and now it eased his mother as they turned back into the dark forest, and day turned into night. For a while, Aredhel had been the child and Maeglin the parent, and she had listened to his every word.   
"Go on," she had said, "For I barely remember the splendour of Gondolin. This hateful dark dims even my memories of happier times. I feel that I am losing my mind. Tell me, Lómion, what does a flower look like? Can you hear the sound of a fountain?"   
Maeglin shook his head.   
"Forgive me," his mother said. "Of course you do not know, for you have never seen them." She smiled, if sadly. "Let us go home."   
They had stopped out of sight of Eöl's doors, and embraced. "Was I wrong to speak so openly with you, Lómion?" Aredhel said. "You are grown so tall, so fair, you remind me of a great Lord of the Noldor."   
"You may always speak openly with me, mother," he had said. They kissed and parted, and Maeglin had gone back to work beneath his father's suspicious eyes.   
Suddenly, a loud clang interrupted his thoughts. Lassecant had brought down his hammer on the forge-bell, finally signalling the end of the work-day. Maeglin watched as his father's smiths laid down their tools with a grunt of relief, wiping the sweat from their blackened faces. Eöl stood by his foreman, taller and darker with more power in his stance.   
"A good day of work, everyone. We will continue tomorrow," he said briefly, then returned to honing the axe-blade with long, smooth strokes of his glasscloth. He seemed totally absorbed in the work, and did not speak to his son, as he occasionally did when work was finished. Maeglin began to unstrap his gauntlets, rubbing at the rings of iron-grime that had accumulated around his wrists. He had removed his overalls and was about to leave, when his father's voice stopped him dead in his tracks.   
"You. Remain behind."   
Maeglin obeyed, watching the other smiths leave until only Eöl, Lassecant and himself remained. A cold fear wound its way around his heart, and he felt certain that his father had found out that he had left the forest without permission. But how? He had been so careful!   
However, the Dark Elf made no move to speak to his son, but bent over his work-bench, seemingly oblivious of Maeglin's presence. This was a favourite torture of Eöl's, and often as a child Maeglin had confessed his misbehaviour rather than risk his father's wrath. Sometimes the punishment was better than the waiting. But tonight, he decided, he would not submit. Something changed in him every time he saw the sun, and filled him with a reckless energy. Why should he not disobey his father? He was growing strong now, strong enough to stand up for himself at least.   
Still his father did not speak, so Maeglin fixed his gaze on the horse-shoe, watching it turn from glowing orange, to red, to dusky black. Eöl nodded wordlessly to Lassecant, and the foreman quickly removed his apron and gauntlets and left, his loud footsteps echoing down the hall.   
The forge fell silent, broken only by the sound of Eöl working the imperfections out of the blade, sweeping it rhythmically with the cloth. Maeglin knew Eöl hated to leave a job unfinished, and began to wish he had completed his own work. He had no desire to make Eöl more angry than was necessary, and he was certain to be angry.   
Eventually Maeglin could bear it no longer, and he broke the silence.   
"Yes, father? What did you want?"   
His voice sounded small in the empty workshop, weaker than he would have liked. Nervously, he began to rub at the iron rings around his wrists, their pattern almost like chains on his white skin.   
Eöl turned to his son, and his face was grim, the lines etched deep with iron-dust from his work. He did not stop working the blade as he spoke in his strange, harsh voice, accented strongly by the secret Avarin language of his youth. He held on to his old accent even when surrounded by Sindar elves, and still spoke their tongue imperfectly.   
"Where were you yesterday?" Eöl said.   
Maeglin willed himself not to betray the truth on his face, for Eöl would read it with ease. He spoke calmly, making his voice pleasant and smooth.   
"At the iron-mine," he began. "Our labours have reduced..."   
"You will tell me the truth now." Eöl said in a quiet voice, laced with danger. He laid the axe aside and approached his son. Maeglin braced himself, but Eöl turned aside, inspecting Maeglin's workbench. He picked up the horse-shoe, examined it, and thrust it back into the heat, working the tongs into the very heart of the fire. Maeglin watched his father's powerful hands taming the glowing metal in the heat of the forge, and imagined what it would feel like if one of those hands were to close around his neck. He swallowed, but said nothing. Perhaps Eöl would let the matter rest if he said nothing.   
"You were seen leaving the stables with two horses, yours and your mother's. Surely an excursion to the iron-mine does not befit a lady's company?" he said, turning the shoe so it glowed a merry red. The forge hissed with approval at its master's expert touch, and flames licked at the edges of his well-worn gauntlets. Eöl muttered a few words under his breath, and the flames dropped, sighing softly at their master's word. When the metal was at the right temperature to be shaped, he removed it from the heat quickly. Maeglin watched as Eöl took a hammer, a larger, heavier one than he was accustomed to using, and beat down on the horse-shoe with such force that sparks flew from the anvil. When it was shaped to his satisfaction, the Dark Elf paused and wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his wrist. He continued.   
"And it is interesting, is it not, that you should have travelled South to the mine by way of the Celon? Your boots are flecked with river-mud. A rather round-about way, do you not think?"   
Maeglin looked down in dismay. How could he have made such a clumsy slip? Now he had endangered his mother as well, for Eöl knew well that Maeglin did not know that way out of the forest, and Aredhel did. It had been the very way she had wandered in there herself, many years ago.   
Maeglin said nothing, and Eöl turned his back on him, quenching the hot metal in a wide tank of water, filling the air with clouds of steam. The flames from the torches illuminated his hollow cheeks, and a strange light was in his dark, deep-set eyes. The angry hissing from the water subsided, and at last, he turned to face his son.   
"You will remain in the forest, _ion-nin._ You will not ride North of Celon, nor will you leave the borders of my land, save in my company. You can find nothing but disappointment in the lands of the Kinslayers." He laid the tormented steel to rest away from the cruel heat.   
"You may go now. If you see your mother, advise her for what I have told you."   
Whether it was foolishness or anger that possessed him he knew not, but something made Maeglin look into his father's eyes, and for the first time, he saw. He saw a whirl of stars, bent and whispering trees above a dark pool. He saw a reflection in the water, a grim, noble face, black hair tightly braided in the fashion of a forgotten race. He saw chains and darkness, heard a voice deeper and more powerful than any among the Eldar.   
He saw light, airy halls, tall pillars bound with leaves. There was laughter and music, and elves were dancing freely. All save one joined in the merry-making, and he crouched in a corner, seeking darkness, nurturing a black hatred for those that danced while he suffered. Then, a forest - a forest that shut out all light with a canopy of dark leaves. There was a house in the darkest depths of the wood, and there a family dwelt, bound by love and hate, jealousy and mistrust.   
He saw the truth of the matter - he would never leave the forest while Eöl had mastery over him. Indeed, his father purposed to keep him shut away, and make him like himself - a dark elf, shunning the sunlight in favour of the fire-glow from the forges, hating the kin that he had never seen. While he submitted himself to Eöl's laws, he could never escape, and neither would his mother. It was this thought that made Maeglin cry out:   
"And how would you know what I might find outside this forest? Have you not always shunned the light, hiding here in the darkness?" Eöl turned to him then, slamming the tongs down, with an expression of no less than fury. Maeglin did not care.   
"You may have no love for my mother's kin, but you have no right to keep her or me from our own! You forced her against her will to abide in this dark wood, but you shall not restrain me!"   
Before he could say any more, Eöl had slapped him hard around the face. Maeglin reeled, thrown off-balance by the sharp blow, and he thought he heard a cry - his? No, it was Aredhel's voice, silenced, and from the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a gleam of white, fading into the darkness.   
Or was it only a shade of his mother, part of her that was slowly dying, taken by force, cut off from the light?   
Under his father's glare, Maeglin felt all the strength fade from his limbs, and he sank down to a stool in the corner.   
For a while, neither Elf spoke. Maeglin struggled to regain what dignity he could, and pulled himself upright, the room swaying slightly around him. Eöl did not take his eyes off his son's face, and he wondered what his father could read in his eyes, and what was hidden.   
"You are of the house of Eöl, Maeglin, my son," he said, his voice dangerously low, "and not of the Golodhrim. All this land is the land of the Teleri, and I will not deal nor have my son deal with the slayers of our kin, the invaders and usurpers of our homes."   
He took Maeglin's wrists, his strong fingers easily encircling them, following the line of the ash residue from his gauntlets.   
"In this you shall obey me, or I will set you in bonds." He paused, fixing his eyes on Maeglin's. "Do you understand?"   
"Yes, father."   
Eöl almost smiled. "Good, then." He shook off his battered gauntlet, and touched Maeglin's cheek, causing him to flinch.   
"Put some cold water on that," he said. "Your mother is foolish. She will think that I have wronged you, when I am only trying to correct you. You understand, son of mine?"   
Maeglin nodded in assent, and Eöl left him to himself, the untended forge-fire dying down with a quiet hiss. The steam began to clear, and - or was it but a vision? - his mother was standing there before him. She smiled gently, and approached him.   
"Was he very angry?" Aredhel asked. She moved like a shade through the iron-tinged air, and touched her son's arm in concern. "Maeglin?"   
He managed a weak smile, for he could not bear to upset his mother. "He was angry," he said. "We must be more careful next time."   
"Oh, Maeglin." Aredhel said, her dark eyes shining with tears. "Must you always suffer for my selfish whims?"   
"I would suffer the harshest punishment if it would make you happy." Maeglin said.   
"Your suffering would never make me happy," Aredhel cried. She began to weep, her body shaking with great, racking sobs. Maeglin took her in his arms. Her dark hair tickled his neck as he held her, stroking her back until her tears had abated.   
"Do not cry. We will leave one day... we will."   
"Will it be soon?" Aredhel dried her eyes.   
"Aye. It will. If you will lead me, I will come with you, and we will run away forever." Maeglin paused. "Just like you always wanted to. Just like we always wanted to."   
Aredhel looked at him, her eyes full of trust and love. How could he refuse her now? Besides, already he was eager to see the bright sun again, to feel its penetrating gaze wash away the taints of Eöl from his skin, his blood.   
"Go now." Maeglin whispered, releasing her. "You must ready some things, little things for the journey. See that the horses are good. When he is to take me to Tumunzahar for the festival this summer, I shall say that I have too much work to do here. I will seem to be willing to stay here, I will gain his trust. Then we shall ride."   
Aredhel looked at her son in amazement. Never had she heard him speak thus. "You sound like one of the great among my people," she said. "How the folk of Gondolin shall rejoice at our coming!" With that, she hurried off, and Maeglin noted that once again she seemed tall and proud, and her step was lighter.   
His cheek was beginning to throb. If he did not tend it, a large, ugly bruise would grow in the next few days, and there was bound to be talk among the smiths. He left the forge, following the stony path outside to the large tank where rain-water was gathered for use in the house. As he splashed water on his face, he swore to himself that he would get his mother out of Elmoth, somehow. Already he could hear the trumpets of Gondolin, heralding their return, to be heard far and wide. How Eöl would skulk in the shadows then, for no longer would he have the mastery over his wife and son. How the mighty of Gondolin would bow before Maeglin, son of Aredhel, and the prison of the forest would be a distant memory. All it would take was a little acting, slipping on a different face, and Eöl would be so pleased by Maeglin's change of heart that he would give him the freedom he needed to escape...   
Smiling to himself, Maeglin turned back to the house and went in search of his father. The last flames sputtered and died as he walked away, the cold sound of his footsteps on the stone reminiscent of the forge's master.   
**End**


End file.
